Texts, Trains of Thought, and the Things We Never Say
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: After the Fall, Sherlock doesn't have John. He has Molly. Follow Sherlock and Molly's friendship/relationship as it builds after The Reichenbach Fall. Starts immediately after the Fall and continues throughout the three year disappearance. Spoilers for Reichenbach, obviously. Fluffy Sherlolly!
1. All Clear

**Texts, Trains of Thought, and the Things We Never Talk About**

**T****o: Molly Hooper**

**Subject: (No subject)**

** Everything worked out fine. Details to follow.  
SH**

Sherlock sent the text in a flurry of motion. He knew that Molly would have been watching the fall, most likely from the second floor of the hospital, first window, if he was correct, and that she would be worrying about him.

That was all she had been doing the past twelve hours. Worrying and fussing and never quite visibly panicking. All of this aside, she _had_ performed brilliantly in her part in Sherlock's faked suicide. He was grateful for that, but he didn't have the time for the text yet. There was a lot to be done before he could fall back into an epitome of what life had been.

He looked forward to getting back to normal, back to John and Mrs Hudson and Greg. Molly... He would be spending a lot of time with Molly in the future. He had yet to determine if this was a good or bad thing.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes, smearing blood across his face. He desperately needed a shower but first things first. He had to get out of St Bart's without being noticed. Time for a total transformation.

Sort of.

* * *

Molly had been watching the whole thing. She was one of the few people in on the secret, Sherlock faking his own death, and it wasn't any better. Watching Sherlock go through that... Molly couldn't imagine. She couldn't imagine how Sherlock felt and she didn't want to imagine how John had felt watching it from his vantage point.

Still, when the text came through, she breathed a sigh of relief. There was so much that could have gone wrong. Sure, he was faking his own death but if things had gone even slightly wrong, Sherlock could have really ended up dead on the pavement. And Molly was sure that she had heard a gunshot just two or three minutes before the fall. Sherlock had not said anything about a gunshot, he hadn't even taken a gun with him, so that had been... well, terrifying. But everything had gone off without a hitch otherwise.

When the text came through, Molly was already halfway across the hospital before she stopped herself. She couldn't go running to Sherlock, not yet. She had to maintain her position as the innocent pathologist, as mousy Molly, and then when the news came in, when they told her about Sherlock jumping to his death outside, she had her part to play. Then, only then, would she be free to go to Sherlock, to make sure that he was alright.

He may have survived the Fall, but Molly was sure that he was far from fine.

* * *

**IF you follow me, you may recall _Texting a Disconnected Phone_. This is going to be similar to that, only these will be between Sherlock and Molly. There will be interaction for those who are wondering. The drabbles will follow Sherlock and Molly directly from the Fall and onwards throughout the entire time that Sherlock is 'dead'. I don't know how long these drabbles will be, how many chapters, etc, but I wanted to write some fluffy cute Sherlolly, so, drabbles!**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Reviews, favourites, and follows are lovely. Thank you!**


	2. Flatshare

**To: Molly Hooper**

**Subject: (No subject)**

**Everything's fine on my end. I'll be at your flat.**  
**Delete after reading.**  
**SH**

Sherlock had never been so exhausted in his life. Even with the cases that had left him fainting in their kitchen because he hadn't slept in days didn't seem to be as exhausting as he felt now. Funny, as he hadn't really done _anything_.

Now, he had let himself into Molly's flat and was utilising her shower. The blood had dried in his hair, had been matting his curls to the side of his head. If there was one thing Sherlock Holmes hated, it was his hair being messed up.

He watched the crimson wash down the drain with little interest. It was like his life was rushing away from him, swirling down that drain with him. It was going to be difficult to get back, but he would. He vowed to himself that he would.

Sherlock turned the shower off and stepped out, hooking Molly's fluffy pink towel to wrap around himself. The only flaw with their plan was Sherlock had nothing of his own. He was not putting his old clothes back on; they were covered in blood. Molly's clothes would _not_ fit... although perhaps Sherlock could find one of her old boyfriend's shirts or something. Women did that, didn't they? Kept mementos?

Sherlock hitched his towel closer and left the bathroom. His shower damp hair dripped cold trickles of water down his neck. The floorboards were cold against his feet. This was not Baker Street.

God, could he not escape that? Every second that he didn't _think_, he immediately latched onto the fact that he wasn't at Baker Street, he couldn't see John, that his life was changed. Why was he wallowing in the loathing pit of self-pity when this had been his own decision?

He gritted his teeth and stopped in Molly's doorway, looking around her room. Clothes in the dresser, dress clothes in the closet. He started towards the dresser, only to stop when a sort of purring coo met his ears. He looked around, spotting a ridiculous looking cat laying on Molly's duvet. The cat was staring at him in the way that cats do, its tail tip twitching.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows before returning to his search for clothes.

He heard the front door open and was just about to yell down the hall that he was going to need Molly to go shopping for him when footsteps ran down the hall. He barely had time to look up before he was assailed by the pathologist, quite literally, as she threw her arms around him tightly.

Sherlock had not expected the hug.

He blinked slowly, holding his arms away from Molly. In the back of his mind- the part that wasn't shocked and slowly becoming uncomfortable from unexpected physical contact- he was aware that he'd lost the towel he'd had around his waist.

"I'm so glad that you're alright," Molly mumbled against his chest. She did not seem to have any plans to move anytime soon.

"Molly."

"I'm just... I..."

"Molly, you are aware that I am naked," Sherlock said bluntly.

There was a pause before Molly stepped backwards so quickly that it would have been comical in a different setting. Her face turned beet red and she turned around, muttering apologies and stuttering out general embarrassed drivel.

Sherlock smirked for the first time since the Fall. He grabbed the towel from the floor and lazily wrapped it around his waist again. "Do you happen to have anything I could wear in the meantime of getting to go shopping?"

"U-Um... Not really. I had some of... well, I had a shirt that was Jim's but I, uh, threw it out... Do... I mean, I can do the washing. Um... You can wear my dressing gown!"

Sherlock sighed thinly. For all of the plan going as well as it should, he certainly hadn't thought about the small details. He hadn't really had time to, to be honest, to do anything besides plan out every painstaking detail of the fake suicide. Worrying about what clothes to take to Molly's, if any? It had been the last thing on his mind.

"Alright," he said.

Molly scampered off to the bathroom and returned a moment with her fluffy, pink dressing gown.

Sherlock only barely managed to not sigh again. Molly Hooper saved your life, Sherlock Holmes. For God's sake, do not complain about her dressing gown.

"Thanks," he said, his voice dry despite his good intentions.

It was short, that was a given, and Sherlock had to admit that this was perhaps the most stupid that he'd felt in a long time.

When he glanced up again, Molly was staring at him. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"My clothes are in the bathroom. I have them soaking in cold water so the blood doesn't stain."

"Oh! Yeah, I'm on it," Molly mumbled, turning away again.

"Molly?"

"Yeah?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

"Thank you."

He did not need to specify that this was not about the dressing gown.

Molly blinked, seeming surprised. But then she smiled hesitantly, saying "You're welcome" before turning away again.

* * *

**Here's a basket of sweet little Sherlollipops. Help yourself! Side effects may include: tooth decay, feelings of warm fuzziness, with perhaps just a twinge of awkwardness. You're welcome.**

**Would love to hear your thoughts thus far. Thank you!**


	3. Mollycoddling

**To: Molly Hooper**

**Subject: (No subject)**

**Do not attack me with the baseball bat when I walk into your flat tonight. I'm wearing black and am covered in blood. Am not a burglar.**

The first time that Sherlock returned to her flat covered in blood and sporting countless bruises and injuries, Molly wasn't quite sure what to think of it. Yes, she knew that Sherlock had a difficult job and that he got hurt more often than she probably know (God bless Doctor Watson and his patience), but it was still a little disconcerting to wake up in the morning and find Sherlock sprawled on the sofa, black eye startlingly striking against his pale features.

Sherlock was Sherlock. He wasn't supposed to get hurt.

But he did. A lot, as Molly came to realise.

One night, he showed up just past dinner-time, blood literally _pouring_ from a wound on his head.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock brushed her off with a wave of his hand, stumbling back the kitchen doorway. Molly immediately got to her feet, appetite immediately vanquished, and obediently trotted after the detective like she was a lost dog.

Sherlock stumbled when he got to the bathroom and steadied himself on the doorframe.

"Sherlock, what happened?" Molly demanded, in as much of a demanding voice as she could muster while watching Sherlock struggle to walk properly. "You need to go to A&E!"

Sherlock didn't respond to her, simply staggered the last few feet to the shower and climbed in, fully clothed. She was about to question his motives when he turned the shower on, full blast, efficiently drenching his clothes. Blood poured from his clothes and swirled down the drain in a sickening display. Molly felt faint... _no, you dissect corpses, Molly Hooper! Pull yourself together!_

"Sherlock, what _happened_?" Molly said again, looking back at Sherlock's face. He was stark white. It was scary.

Sherlock gingerly ran his fingers through his hair, combing blood out. He shifted his position slightly before taking an unsteady seat on the edge of the bath. Molly put her hand on his shoulder to steady him; she didn't want him to fall forward and crack his head on the porcelain.

"Sherlock?"

"Molly, I need you to look at the wound on my head... and tell me how deep it is," Sherlock said slowly, swallowing. Molly suspected that he was feeling he was about to be sick.

For whatever reason, she didn't argue. She just turned the bathroom light on and folded the wet tendrils of his beautiful hair out of the way in the most gentle way she could. Maybe not gentle enough; Sherlock was utterly tense, but Molly couldn't do any better.

The wound was deep. It was a disgusting, oozing thing that made Molly want to throw up. She swallowed back what she had managed to eat of dinner and instead reached to Sherlock's neck for his pulse.

He swatted her away impatiently. "Molly..."

"Sherlock, you need to go to hospital. It's too deep and you're losing too much blood. I'll call an ambulance."

Sherlock's hand snapped out and caught her wrist as she turned away. "Molly, no... Just get a cab..." he mumbled, closing his eyes.

"Sherlock-"

"Please."

Molly sighed. "You've got to apply pressure to that. And you've got to get changed. Sherlock, can you, I don't know-" She didn't know what she was suggesting, even. She should have gone to call that ambulance _yesterday_.

"I'll manage..." Sherlock mumbled, trying to get to his feet and swaying.

Molly immediately steadied him. "No, you won't! You shouldn't be moving! Now sit down and I'm going to call an ambulance!"

"There's a doctor on my mobile... He's a contact through the homeless network... Ring him... Can't go to hospital... looking like this..."

Molly didn't know if he meant in sake of his pride or his appearance. Yes, he still looked very much the same consulting detective that had 'died' not so long ago. Problems might have arisen, but they could have played it off or something. Sherlock had a completely false identity now... he just didn't have a different appearance to go with it.

"Alright, stay there!" Molly ordered. "I'll be back in a minute. Don't move."

Molly ran from the bathroom to grab Sherlock's old mobile from his bedroom. If this was how life was going to be during the next who-knew-how-long, Molly wasn't sure how much of it she was going to be able to take.

Frankly, she wasn't sure how much of it _Sherlock_ was going to be able to take, either.

* * *

**For the record, Sherlock's texts will _not_ be signed with 'SH' from now on, so the ones without initials will be his. Explanations will be given in the next chapter.**


End file.
